Friends and Enemies, Old and New
by James Jago
Summary: My first HP fanfic. A formerly home-schooled boy and girl are sent to Hogwarts by the Ministry. So far, so cliche? Well, their father is not only Uncle Vernon's boss, but also Lucius Malfoy's estranged brother! Bad language and sexual innuendo galore.
1. The Malones meet the Golden Trio

Now, I've never attempted anything in this category before, so I'm probably going to make a mess of it. Usual disclaimers apply (JK Rowling can have the Malone family if she wants them, by the way) and flames don't scare me; I've shown my stuff to my English teacher!  
  
I groaned, and thumped the alarm clock. The first day of term, I decided, is the invention of Beelzebub. On the plus side, I was getting shot of Stonewalls at long last; my dad reckoned that going to a normal school during the day and home magic coaching would give us a grounding in both cultures. It made sense really; OWLs as well as GCSEs might come in handy.  
  
Much to my father's regret, however, the Ministry had disagreed. They only found out during the summer holidays before what ought to have been our sixth year, and ill-tempered official letters were exchanged, culminating in me and my sister Francis being sent to Hogwarts this year.  
  
I'd thought it might make a nice change, though it was less appealling at this hour of the morning. I'll skip the rather monotonous description of preparing for school, the last-minute panics and so forth because you probably go through the same thing.  
  
Mum dropped us at the local station, where we would travel to King's Cross. For reasons which will be explained in the fullness of time, she didn't fancy running into fellow Hogwarts students and their parents (one specific set of parents, actually).  
  
"Right, good luck, you two. Try not to get into any trouble," Mum warned us. I mentally translated this as 'Don't punch Draco Malfoy', and nodded. Fran gave Mum a hug, and we proceeded to the platform. Instead of the regulation trunks, we were carrying suitcases which Dad had performed some mildly illegal modifications on, and a holdall each.  
  
"If the train's late..." Fran said nervously.  
  
"It's a twenty minute journey and the train should come out on Platform Nine," I replied. "No way can it be THAT late, even in this country." Fran is the more easily worried of the two of us. Which is odd really, seeing as she is also the most outright reckless, as well as having better people skills and getting laid far more often. I'm the quiet one, the loner who reads hefty great science fiction tomes and watches the Discovery Channel instead of going out and setting fire to things, unlike the majority of my neighbourhood.  
  
We were slightly early to the station, so I casually leant against the appropriate bit of otherwise blank wall in readiness. And fell backwards through it.  
  
"Ow!" I looked up, and realised that just about the whole of Hogwarts was watching me. I had the presence of mind to turn this to my advantage. "Where am I?" I said, trying to sound confused. "W-what is this place?"  
  
"Oh, no!" said a voice. "A Muggle's fallen through the barrier- Hold on a minute! You're Malone, the transfer student, aren't you?" There was gratifying laughter.  
  
I got to my feet, and extended my hand to Professor McGonagall. "There goes a perfectly good joke," I remarked. "My father sends his regards, Professor, and hoped to be remembered to you."  
  
"I see you have inherited his sense of humour," she remarked icily, though I glimpsed a faint sparkle of amusement in her eyes. "Try not to involve magic in your pranks, however." She wandered off to find Fran; I supposed she had been detailed to ensure we got on the train, something I imagine she could have done without. I scanned the platform, looking out for one face and hoping to hell I wouldn't see another. Both had seen me, of course.  
  
In keeping with Sod's Law, it was Draco who reached me first. "What the hell are you doing here?" he demanded, still the polite kid I remembered from Grandfather's funeral.  
  
"Ministerial orders," I replied. "Wasn't Dad's idea, I can-"  
  
"Don't you mention his name in front of me! He was a traitor to the family name, to the purity of magic!"  
  
"Stow that eugenics crap, Draco," I snarled. "If you want to carry on with a blood feud, fine. What Uncle Lucius and my father said to each other doesn't matter a damn to me. If you want to harbour a grudge, though, be my guest." He growled and stalked off, muttering dire threats.  
  
"Rick!" said Harry. "What are you here for? I haven't seen you since primary school! How come you never told me you were a wizard? And what the hell was all that about?"  
  
"Well, in the approximate order you asked the questions: The Ministry won't let Dad teach me at home in the holidays any longer; if your uncle found out his boss was a wizard he'd have a stroke; and that little git is my cousin." It was question three that confused him the most.  
  
"You're presumably aware of the Malfoy family's obsession with pure-bloods," I elaborated. "Dad decided to shove all that, got himself disinherited, and went off with a 'normal-born' girl he met in his seventh year- not necessarily in that order. The last thing Uncle Lucius said to him was that if they ever set eyes on each other again he'd chuck something Unforgivable Dad's way, and I'm not going to repeat Dad's reply, because here comes Fran. You remember my sister, don't you?" He nodded, trying to take it all in.  
  
"Come on, the train's about to go," Harry said at last.  
  
We chatted about shared experiences, teachers and run-ins with Dudley, which I'd only been spared after Dad was promoted over Vernon Dursley. Fran laughed, and told us about when she'd beaten him up and he'd been too ashamed to tell anybody, a fact which Harry gleefully catalogued for future use.  
  
We found a compartment, and Harry introduced us to his friends. Ron had also apparently witnessed Draco's and my little altercation and sympathised. Fran was soon well into Step One of what she calls Fran's Instant Lesbian Creator, which she tends to use on girls I fancy; whinge about the shortcomings of men, preferably the one they're with (if applicable).  
  
When I heard Hermione remark, "Honestly, I might as well have used my WAND with what Viktor's got!" I knew it was time to stroll off. By silent consensus, us three men retreated in a body.  
  
"That's an international Quidditch player she's on about!" Ron remarked. "I think I ought to give Luna Lovegood some Extendable Ears!" I guessed he didn't think much of Viktor Krum or had a thing for Hermione, probably both.  
  
"That was just the opening salvo," I replied, grimacing. "The real Sexuality Blitzkreig is still to come. And it works; she's got off with more girls than I have, not that THAT'S saying much!"  
  
This last part had never made much sense to me. We both look almost identical, with nondescript brown hair and eyes somewhere between blue and grey. Maybe that's closer to ideals of female beauty rather than male attractiveness, I don't know.  
  
Ron was staring at me like I'd produced a live hand grenade. I doubt he understood the Blitzkreig bit, but I think the rest was self-explanatory. I just half-smiled, and wandered off to find an empty compartment to change into my uniform.  
  
Well, this promised to be an interesting term, I mused as I pulled on my robe. I dug out my broomstick and made it hover, checking the custom binding and enhanced bristles were OK, and stuffed it back into the enchanted suitcase. I saw Harry look at me oddly. "Don't take my mum on holiday without one!" I quipped.  
  
"No, the broom. I've never seen that model before," he explained.  
  
"No reason you should have. It's a '73 Silver Comet, with some pretty heavy modifications," I replied. "Put it like this. If brooms were cars, this little beauty would be a Ford Mustang with a V12 and nitrous installed." Harry, who I later discovered had been given The Fast And The Furious on video for his birthday by Mrs Figg from next door, whistled appreciatively.  
  
"It belonged to my dad, you see. He played Beater in the Slytherin team, and won three cups with them on that thing. I'm looking forward to seeing how Draco's wussy little Nimbus does against it!" Actually, I had a fair idea. I'd had it up to ninety before air resistance pitched me off and put me in hospital for a week (I told them it was a scrambler bike accident) and the handling was amazing. If I didn't make it in wizardry then I'd join the RAF and go into fighters.  
  
Ron had turned up from the Prefects-only compartment, and he insisted on having a look. My Silver Comet was a doer, not a looker, really; Oak handle, unpolished, and the new binding and bristles ruined the lines. Parked next to Harry's Firebolt and Ron's Cleansweep Nine nobody would nick mine unless they were REAL experts, and they'd have to be to get past the security measures on it, too.  
  
At this point Draco happened to pass by, and had a good laugh at my expense when he saw my preferred mount.  
  
"How old is THAT?" he laughed.  
  
"The stick's about twenty years old; the rest of it I'm not sure about, Dad and I've spent so many weekends tuning it up I can't remember what age most of it is," I replied evenly. "It's only as good as the rider, though."  
  
"Well, some time soon we'll just have to see how good you REALLY are, won't we?" he sneered.  
  
"Three laps of the Quidditch pitch?" I suggested.  
  
"Any time. Shall we put, say, ten Galleons on it?"  
  
"Happily," I replied coolly. //I shall look forward to taking YOU down a few pegs, pal!// I added silently; he WAS a prefect, sadly, so I couldn't say it out loud. Or bop him one, which I had longed to do since I last saw him, refusing to even look at the four of us as we stood beside Grandfather's grave. Oh, he was his father's son, all right.  
  
***  
  
The Great Hall was just that; great. As in big, YOU know what I mean! Anyway.  
  
The Sorting Hat was its usual, diconcerteningly talkative self, and 'Malone, Francis' and 'Malone, Richard' had to go through the ritual like the obviously terrified first years. Fran got Gryffindor, and I was rather hoping to be in the same house. We aren't twins, despite appearances; she was born a little over nine months after me (make of that what you will!), but we might as well be twins, the way we are.  
  
"Hmmm," it said once it was my turn. "Well he's confident and a little reckless, but not arrogant, so that's Slytherin out..." I suppressed a grin at this little comment. "Brave, but not violent or aggressive, and compassionate. What else but... GRYFFINDOR!"  
  
"Thanks," I said to it as I headed for the right table. I gave Draco a thumbs-up, which he answered with a flinty glare, and sat down between Fran and Harry.  
  
Dumbledore gave his usual speech.  
  
"Welcome back or, in the case of the first years, simply welcome to Hogwarts. Welcome also to two sixth years who are joining us from elsewhere." I reddened slightly.  
  
"Nominations for a new Head Boy are to open shortly before the Christmas break, and any student in the sixth or seventh year may stand for election, subject to a consensus among the staff. The Forbidden Forest remains off-limits to all students valuing their limbs and other extremities, and please respect all Lights-Out regulations, as our caretaker is threatening industrial action over their violation.  
  
"We have a new Defence Against the Dark Arts teacher; Professor Snape, who is also Potions Master. Other than that, I have only these words: Enjoy the Feast!"  
  
"Snape," I mused, as the Feast appeared on the tables; neat trick, really. "Dad mentioned somebody by that name. They were quite good friends from what he tells me." Harry winced slightly, and I realised I'd made a big error; Dad had been quite vehement about James Potter. "Sorry, Harry," I added in an undertone.  
  
"It's okay, it isn't your fault."  
  
"Or yours," Fran added firmly. "Nobody can choose their parents; Dad couldn't, could he?"  
  
We established ourselves in the dormitories, and I parked my broom in the sheds before looking to see what our first lesson was; Potions. Harry visibly wilted.  
  
Professor Snape was not excessively sarcastic, remarkable given what Dad said of him.  
  
"Malone," he said thoughfully. "I note that neither of you have joined your family's House, now that your father chooses to grace this establishment with your presence."  
  
"I intend to place School before House, Sir," I replied, meeting his gaze. Grandfather Malfoy was worse than this man even after twenty years in Alchemy, a profession which leads you to be physically around mercury on a regular basis, and consequentally wind up mentally orbiting Neptune.  
  
"Good," he replied, fractionally less glacially. "I trust you have learned well from your father?"  
  
"He's taught us everything he ever learned in this room, sir," Fran replied; she'd got used to Grandfather Malfoy as well. "Though our mother taught us everything SHE learned, too."  
  
He didn't need to say "Just as well," we knew as well as he did that Potions was Mum's specialty rather than Dad's.  
  
Our first task was a relatively simple Blemish Removing draught, which we could ALL use at some stage. I'd spent several afternoons trying to perfect this one, with increasingly successful results; at least this time it didn't emit vile-smelling green smoke or corrode the cauldron. No way was either Neville (my partner in this lesson) or I going to try it on our own skin, though. Draco, to my great satisfaction, made a complete mess of it. Snape glared at him, rather belligerently. "Malfoy, need I remind you that your family is no longer in a position to buy you a new cauldron every few days? Please try to be a bit more careful." Even I felt a little sorry for Draco at that point; I'd made a point of not bringing it up, and so far as I was aware everybody else considered it a bit too below-the-belt as well.  
  
Next up: DADA. Oh, joy!  
  
"Well," Ron observed as we made our way there, "at least we know where we are with Snape."  
  
"Yeah," Neville echoed. "I'm far from his number one fan, but at least he won't turn out to have you-know-who's face sticking out the back of his head or something, I'm certain of that." From my father's reminiscences about him, I felt that I'd rather reserve judgement.  
  
"Is the position cursed or something?" I suggested. "By somebody who got sacked, maybe? Can anybody think of an ex-teacher with a grudge and a highly developed sense of irony?"  
  
Snape had us practicing in the Room of Requirement; I suppose even he can get tired of setting stuff up every lesson. To my mild amusement, we were with Slytherin. Methinks that practical sessions would be approached with great enthusiasm.  
  
Snape, who has a sense of humour in there somewhere, paired up Draco with me. Fran was up against some trollop called Pansy Parkinson, Draco's girlfriend. I didn't offer to swap partners.  
  
"First of all," Snape informed us, "you will demonstrate such ability as you possess. I require ten minutes of freestyle one-to-one duelling, so that I may detect any shortcomings that require my attention. Given the remarkable, nay unpreccedented scores in this category of your OWLs I expect there to be very few. You may begin."  
  
I immediately let fly a Stunner, but Draco blocked it and returned with something nasty that I'd never seen before, a burst of blue flame. Only much later did I discover that it was the same trick Hermione used to set Snape's robe on fire. I hurled myself to the right and rolled, came up with my wand pointed at him and let off a full Body Bind, catching him before he could defend himself or retaliate.  
  
The fireworks were dying down, with an approximately equal number of Gryffindors and Slytherins down for the count. I did the counter-curse on Draco, and offered him a hand.  
  
"Nice one. I got lucky with that one. Where'd you learn that blue flame trick? I've never seen that one before." Draco was unimpressed. He grabbed his wand and got up without a word. Snape was nodding thoughtfully. "Not at all bad," he remarked approvingly. "Even Longbottom has proved himself to be better than outright incompetent for a change." Neville took the back-handed compliment without any visible reaction. "When you are ready, you will begin once more."  
  
THIS time, Draco was on form, catching me out with a blast of what felt like high voltage electricity. I was hurled almost to the other side of the classroom, landing painfully on my back in exactly the same way as I had in that unfortunate 'scrambler bike accident'. I was winded, but otherwise unharmed apart from bruises.  
  
"Whoa," I wheezed, sitting up. "What was THAT one?" After that, I can't really remember much on account of Draco chucking a Stun spell at me, which is the magical equivalent of half a brick.  
  
I awoke in bed in the Hospital Wing, with a bad head and an intense desire to belt Draco. If we'd been on the field of battle, fair enough; there's a time and a place for the Queensbury Rules, or whatever the equivalent is in magical duels. But in the classroom, when we were only supposed to be practicing?  
  
"Ah, you're awake," Madam Pomphrey observed. //I'd noticed,// I thought to myself. "How are you feeling?"  
  
"You know when I fell off my broom at ninety miles an hour? This is only slightly better," I replied. "I'm going to get him for this!"  
  
"Your class already did," she replied, pointing to the next bed along. Draco was in residence, looking like he'd narrowly escaped being lynched. He gave me a curt nod.  
  
"Shall we call this particular score settled, then?" I suggested. Another curt nod, which I suppose was better than nothing. Madam Pomphrey wandered off, and I sat up in bed.  
  
"How did the lesson go?" I asked.  
  
"Shut up." Oh well. I suppose I wouldn't be in a chatty mood if I'd just had the shit kicked out of me, either.  
  
At morning break we both recieved a small crowd of visitors, both shooting malicious glances at each other and pretending they weren't there the rest of the time. My head started to hurt again after a while.  
  
Harry left a bag of those horrible Every-Flavour beans, which I regarded with immense mistrust. Draco, I noticed, had nothing.  
  
The bag landed on his bed. "I can never eat these things without worrying about whether the next one'll be something horrible," I explained. There was no reply, but he opened the bag, chose with care and popped one into his mouth. He winced, and spat it out.  
  
"See what I mean?" I said, trying not to laugh. Draco, to my astonishment, began to laugh himself. "You won't believe what flavour that was," he said.  
  
"I doubt I would like it if I knew, thanks. Still up for that broom tryout, by the way?"  
  
"You bet, Ricky!" he replied, suddenly back to the Malfoy he usually was.  
  
"Don't. Only my mother ever called me that, and SHE stopped when I was seven. And before you even THINK about it, the last person to call me Dick nearly lost his. Rick is fine," I said firmly, but without excessive vehemence. There was a thoughtful pause, and then:  
  
"Grandfather always called you that."  
  
"He wasn't the LAST person. I think it may have been some twerp called Piers Poltkiss; a friend of Harry's cousin if that gives you some idea. And anyway, Grandfather spent half his life breathing quicksilver fumes in some dusty little attic somewhere, and thought he was the reincarnation of Merlin."  
  
Draco didn't laugh. "He was a really nice person when he was still right in the head." I nodded.  
  
"That he was. He and my father didn't get on at all well, but he never took that out on me and Fran, or Mum. I disagreed with him about a lot of stuff, and I still do, but he was a good man by his own code."  
  
"So was my father!" Draco added angrily.  
  
"So's mine," I replied. "The difference being that one of them chose what happened to be the winning side." I paused. "Would you have chosen the same side, do you reckon?"  
  
"What do you mean?"  
  
"I read the right papers, and there's no way in hell the war isn't going to happen, and pretty damn soon as far as I can tell. Who are you cheering on?"  
  
"Voldemort'll win." I didn't flinch at the Dark Lord's name; names aren't the problem, people are. "It doesn't matter which team we cheer on. Oh, it'll take a while, and maybe it'll get so bad the Muggles get wind of what's happening, but it's inevitable." I winced. 'Muggle' is considered a dirty word in my family.  
  
"Don't be so sure," I replied. "Us non-magicals have our powers. Have you come across something called the atomic bomb? Powerful weapon, can level a city in a second and leave the ground poisoned with radiation for years after."  
  
"Well, we'll just see. You know," he continued conversationally, "you could pick the winning side, instead of what you call the right one. You Gryffindors would say it's immoral, but I prefer the word pragmatic."  
  
"I'm not taking the Dark Mark, if that's what you're trying to do," I replied. "But hell, the war hasn't started yet. Let's not start fighting it in the corridors, hmm? Let's let my dad and yours do the squabbling, and we can just sort of..." Maintain a sort of frosty silence? Have a go at making some sort of peace? I really wasn't sure, but somehow I couldn't hate him.  
  
"I don't know if we'll ever be friends, but you're right; trying to kill each other before the war actually begins is a bit of a waste of time." Draco got out of bed, and offered his hand. "Detente?"  
  
"A ceasefire at the very least," I replied, shaking the proffered hand. "But don't expect me to go easy on you on the Quidditch pitch!"  
  
I returned to the dormitory in a contemplative mood, and set out to write home.  
  
Dear Mum and Dad,  
  
My first day has been... interesting, shall we say? Got Gryffindor, thank God. A surprising number of teachers hereare your old classmates. Professor Snape's taken over DADA as well as potions- remember him? Sarcastic, but a good teacher, and he has a mildly sadistic sense of humour. He paired me up with COUSIN DRACO, and then gave us ten minutes of freestyle against each other. We BOTH required medical attention afterwards; me for a Stunner when I was down, Draco for what the class did to him afterwards. We've negotiated some sort of a mutual non-aggression pact now, so at least I'm not going to end up killing him.  
  
Please give a certain Mr Dursley a few subtle hints about where I am. His nephew may well benefit, and you'll certainly give that fatuous, obsequitious twerp something to think about!  
  
Fran, being Fran, is becoming friendly with some girl called Hermione. 'Nuff said!  
  
See you at Christmas,  
  
Rick. 


	2. Quidditch, Crushes and Personal Injury

Dear Rick,  
  
That really isn't encouraging; please try and keep your sister out of trouble. But, as her mother says, at least we don't have to worry about VDs and birth control! Whether Hermione's parents would see it that way is a cause for some concern on my part, however, so tell her to be reasonably careful.  
  
I'm glad you have reached some sort of equilibrium with cousin Draco, but watch your back. You never quite know when he'll decide to do something awful. His father was the same, you know.  
  
I'll take your suggestion under advisement; I have to say I wouldn't mind seeing that Durseley idiot's face if I were to let slip that you were at the same school as Harry. Oh, and be sure to let him know that young Dudley just got arrested for purchasing alcohol under age, and his parents are not best pleased!  
  
Yours,  
  
Dad.  
  
I read this out in the common room, to loud laughter. Fran went bright red, especially when I explained about what I'd said in the previous letter, but Hermione took it with good grace. Harry grinned like he'd just caught Cho Chang in the showers when he heard about his cousin's run-in with the law. Ron was a bit puzzled. He just couldn't equate me or my dad with the Malfoys. To be honest, I think most people have the same trouble, even Mum. Harry pointed out the difference between him and Percy, and he saw the point. You may be pleased to learn that Bill and Charlie Weasely popped back home a few days into the holidays, and Percy still hasn't regained the full use of his right arm, "Though since he's left-handed he won't become less of a wanker!" as Ron so eloquently put it. We were all in stitches once we'd worked that one out.  
  
Our next lesson was Quidditch practice, which I'd been looking forward to. Madame Hooch looked at my broom with some suspicion; the Silver Comet series were very, very fast but a bugger to control, and this one didn't look like it was much better. The tryouts for the team were tomorrow -this lesson was basically the equivalent of PE- but I was put in the currently vacant Beater's position along with Ron's younger sister Ginny. She was good, by all acounts, and actually preferred this position to Seeker.  
  
"Everybody hits the Bludgers at you, and besides the rest of the team were always comparing me to Harry," she explained. "I can just about live with being compared to Fred and George, I think, because I'm better at it than them."  
  
//You're better looking, too!// I almost said, but I suspected that Ron would not have been amused. His attitude to those who tried to take liberties with his kid sister is legendary.  
  
It was a frenetic match, characterised by Ginny directing an unnecessary number of Bludgers at Ron, who was on the opposing side. I made a major tactical error by knocking out Angelina Johnson, doing my chances of getting on the team a power of no good. It was quite a tricky shot at an awkward angle and some distance, and it stopped her from scoring, but I imagined that this would be qualified in her recollection by the bruises and the concussion. However, for a team of mixed newcomers and House team members we did pretty well, only missing the Snitch by a second and coming up just twenty points behind.  
  
Ron was left with a bad nosebleed, and significant ill-feeling towards his sibling. "I ought to let her get groped by some Slytherin seventh year," he complained. "Maybe that'd teach her to be a bit nicer to her big brother." I began to suspect that Ginny might be trying to get him to do just that, though I doubted a Slytherin seventh year featured anywhere, and I was proved right.  
  
"If he's serious, I might just get a bit of peace," Ginny whispered quite audibly to one of her friends, a girl I didn't know.  
  
We all heard this; we were probably supposed to. Everybody, except Ron, howled with laughter. Ron's face turned a similar colour to his hair, and I felt it might not be a bad idea to be somewhere else. However, being me, I made a point of blowing Ginny a kiss as I departed.  
  
Ron tok me aside at lunch time, and made a few points about what would happen to me if I tried it on with Ginny. Especially the part about the honey, the anthill and the manacles, which I won't go into just in case you're eating as you read this. Fran was quite amused.  
  
"I think Ginny's got a crush on you," she said. "Lucky git. Wouldn't mind some of that myself!" Having a lesbian for a younger sister is a pain sometimes. I imagine it's bad enough competing with a brother, but a SISTER... On the other hand, I have succeeded a few times where she has failed. At least she was concentrating her efforts on Hermione, who could be so bossy I wasn't crazy enough even to try, and it would be fun seeing the ultimate conclusion of this strange courtship. Even if Fran failed, at least there'd be a catfight to bet on, and Fran very rarely failed.  
  
I headed for Charms with something approaching enthusiasm, mentally composing a letter home as I walked. A suitable method of making Vernon Dursley look very, very stupid had sprung to mind, but I'd need a bit of help with this from Dad... 


	3. In Which Vernon Dursley Is Made To Look ...

Radical shift in POV and location, in accordance with my usual cavalier attitude to narrative convention:  
  
Alexis Malfoy, or Alex Malone as he preferred to be known (yes, there's a book character of the same name, but it is purely coincidental), grinned as he read his son's letter. Trust Rick to come up with that!  
  
Alex was not one of Vernon Dursley's biggest fans. The man was pompous, small minded, and reputedly had an irrational predjudice against the wizarding world. Kitty (Alex's wife) had suggested locking Vernon in a very small room with Lucius, but Alex would not have wished that on either of them- even the Dark Lord would probably have baulked at such inhuman cruelty.  
  
Doing it to Narcissa and that godawful Dursley woman was tempting, though. The way she bossed that poor kid about! If it weren't for the problems with adverse publicity for young Harry then Social Services would have been knocking on -or if necessary down- 42 Privet Drive's front door years ago. Kitty favoured giving Petunia Dursley quote, 'a right slapping,' unquote. This had provoked Alex to give thought to the only bit of advice his mother had ever vouchsafed to him: 'Don't marry a Liverpudlian, working-class mudblood.' Coincidentally it had been shortly after his mother had met Kitty for the first time that she gave him this advice, and Alex had disregarded it utterly. He now pictured Kitty and Mrs Dursley going for the best of three falls, and decided that it was the worst piece of advice he'd ever been given by anybody, except by a man in a plastic mac giving out copies of The Watchtower in the high street yesterday afternoon.  
  
He grinned, and departed to get into the loft.  
  
Vernon Dursley was a man sorely put-upon. Dudley really had done it this time! He and Petunia were prepared to put up with their son's juvenile exploits, which he would probably -hopefully, Veron corrected himself; there was no point in self-delusion- grow out of, but this was something else. Even Petunia had been prepared to concede that Potter had never obliged them to collect him from the local police station, and Vernon had made a mental note to be somewhat nicer to the boy when he returned. In a rare moment of contemplation Vernon had decided that whilst there was precious little to recommend the wizarding world to him, he had rather approved of their judicial system when Potter had described it. He might just let that rather intimidating character with the funny eye -Moody, wasn't it? If it was it suited him- have a little chat with darling Duddles, as Petunia insisted upon calling him, even at age sixteen.  
  
"Morning, Vernie!" called Mr Malone. Vernon winced. How had that brash idiot, three years younger than most of his subordinates, got himself made manager? Vernon was being unfair, and knew it; you tended to place competence before age/'experience'/'maturity' if you wouldn't see forty again and you had more than seven functioning brain cells- which whatever else may be said about him Vernon did. It was just that the man was always so infuriatingly cheery, and never seemed to shout; what the hell did you get yourself promoted for, Vernon wondered, if you then didn't shout at people? Even when the motorbike courier was caught in a passionate embrace with Malone's own secretary in the stationery cupboard, the man had taken him aside and given him what most would call fatherly advice, and what Vernon called something else entirely which I'm not going to repeat here. The fact that the young lad had been far more respectful to everybody in the department afterwards, himself included, had regettably but not unexpectedly failed to register with Vernon.  
  
After about half an hour, he steeled himself against Malone's unrelenting perkiness and went to deliver the completed stack of expenses forms which Malone was required to initial, as well as check to ensure that no expenses had been wrongly disallowed (and there were invariably quite a few, even when Vernon wasn't having as bad a day as he was today).  
  
Malone was dictating a report via one of those fancy new speech-writer microphone things which even Vernon liked, as they cost a lot less than a decent typist, despite the number of errors that they tended to make. This left his hands free to build what appeared to be a model of the Starship Enterprise out of Blu-Tac.  
  
Vernon's eyes were drawn to a photograph hanging above Malone's desk. It appeared to be a graduation photograph, not the official one but taken a few hours later, probably at a pub. Malone was there, along with his ghastly Scouse wife and bunch of typical student-types, and... Potter's parents. They were dressed somewhat differently, in whatever ludicrous fashions had semed like a good idea at the time (Vernon recognised the t-shirt which Petunia had presumably loaned to her sister for the occasion), but despite this and the crowds of others they were clearly recognisable.  
  
Vernon put down the stack of forms, muttered something and departed at some speed. Alex put down the microphone, switched it off for a few moments, and allowed himself a small snigger. Let him get his head around THAT!  
  
He wasn't altogether surprised, a few weeks later, to recieve Dursley's letter of resignation.  
  
"I'll be sorry to lose you, Vernon," he declared. "We may not see eye-to-eye on most things, but your one of the best accountants on the team. You're a bit vague about why you're leaving," he continued thoughtfully. "I appreciate that it's your business, but your new employer may want a reference from us, you see."  
  
Vernon's eyes flicked to the picture above Malone's desk. "Ah, I see." //Oh, bloody hell. What have I done?// he thought to himself, when Vernon turned a deep shade of purple.  
  
"I could have told them all," he snarled, keeping his voice low but still conveying an air of menace. "I doubt I'd be the first. Your kind don't frighten me."  
  
"There are ways of preventing that," Malone replied. "We've been keeping out of trouble with the majority of the normal world for centuries. We don't hurt anybody and we keep a very, VERY low profile. What have we done to you?"  
  
Vernon didn't bother to reply, but walked out in a rage. He made it as far as the lift, but then clasped his hands against his head with a yell of pain, and collapsed.  
  
"Jesus CHRIST! Call an ambulance, now!"  
  
Vernon recieved few visitors, and several of THEM were from the Ministry of Magic. They had explained why telling all the Sunday papers would be a very bad idea, leaving Vernon feeling even more irritated than before. This, on top of being carried from his place of work on a stretcher and being carried to hospital, was something which he could have done without.  
  
On the whole, it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Strokes normally left you paralysed, but Vernon was able to use one arm and his vocal cords, and was assured that he would recover in time. The lack of his left arm wasn't much more than an annoyance.  
  
Malone was comfortingly guilt-ridden, though even Vernon was unable to place the blame with him. If he'd known he was hypertensive he wouldn't have got quite so hacked off, Vernon assured his former boss by way of alleviating this slightly. Petunia hadn't seen things this way, though fortunately she was engaged in open warfare with Catherine Malone and therefore unable to take it out on him. And watching them both being dragged apart and ejected from the building after a particularly vicious catfight had brightened Vernon's day considerably.  
  
To his mild surprise, Potter had been one of the visitors, bearing a large bottle of some sort of wizard's whiskey. They hadn't spoken much, but Vernon had made a point of being slightly more civil to him.  
  
Once he had gone, Vernon had poured himself a glass of the whiskey, not an easy task with one hand. It was rather good, actually.  
  
Vernon was forced to reassess this view when whatever it was made out of apparently reacted with the medication he was taking and caused his moustache to turn bright green. He decided quietly to commence legal action against... Weasely Brothers, or whoever owned the distillery. On the other hand he wasn't really supposed to be drinking anyway, so that was his case buggered right from the start, wasn't it?  
  
Fortunately he never discovered what Weasly Brothers actually was, or that they had given Harry the bottle knowing full well what would happen. Harry should really have checked the label, but hearing of the circumstances surounding the stroke and percieving a certain rough justice in them, had decided against complaining. 


	4. Balls: Quidditch, Yule, And How To Avoid...

Before I continue I would like to say thank you to my girlfriend Amber, who is the only person to have actually read this story as far as I can tell.  
  
Harry missed a couple of lessons, which worried me some. Nobody commented, though Snape raised his eyebrows slightly in a knowing way. He didn't pair me up with Draco again in DADA; it would have been a great embarassment to all concerned if a student were to get killed learning to duel. Draco probably would have used the Killing Curse if he'd lost again, and that would NOT have looked good on Snape's CV.  
  
Harry reappeared at lunchtime, looking worried about something. He was summoned to the Headmaster's office a few minutes later, and returned as if nothing had happened.  
  
I'd made the Quidditch team as Beater, alongside Ginny, and our first match was this afternoon. I managed to talk to Harry shortly before the match, which was against Ravenclaw.  
  
"You were dead right," he explained. "Uncle Vernon did have a stroke when he found out. He'll be okay, though, it wasn't too bad. He's changing jobs, of course."  
  
"He might try setting up some kind of support group," I replied thoughtfully. "You know, like those things where people go and sit in a circle drinking tea, and discussing the problems of having a kid who turns out to be gay." My parents had always refused to attend such events, regarding them as being the preserve of surreptitious homophobics who'd had to severely reassess their views. We'd been learning about gay rights in parallel to school sex education since puberty (Bollocks to Clause 28), and watched the Berlin Love Parade on holiday; I never quite worked up the bottle to show anybody the photographs.  
  
"Yeah, that's just the sort of thing he'd do. I can't imagine him being the only person ever to have trouble adjusting," Harry decided. "Hey, we're on!"  
  
It was a rotten day for a match, with thick fog making it nearly impossible to see where the other side were. An innovative solution was found in the form of wands glowing in the appropriate colour. I wasn't sure if we were allowed to do this, but the balls were now impervious to magical tampering from anybody short of Dumbledore himself, hard lessons having been learnt in the wake of that unfortunate incident when a house elf apparently tried to assassinate Harry with a rigged Bludger.  
  
The match was a long one, with a fair number of injuries. The glowing wands didn't prevent collisions as successfully as hoped; they weren't bright enough to gauge distance and relative speed, and we had a couple of nasty crashes. The only reason we didn't have a hundred goals on both sides was that the Chasers were as blinded as the Keepers, and one goal was disallowed when the Ravenclaw Seeker accidentally hit Ron in the teeth, knocking him through the hoop with the Quaffle close behind. There was a huge debate over whether or not it should have been counted as a save or not, but sympathy for Ron -who was minus two or three teeth- won out in the end.  
  
Sadly, Madam Hooch ruled in favour of the Ravenclaw Seeker who found the Snitch caught in the bristls of his broom, prolonging the match by nearly an hour whilst Harry put about four hundred extra miles on his Firebolt.  
  
Ginny and I didn't have much to do, since the Bludgers were damn near invisible in the fog. I wasn't even certain that we should be flying at all with visibility so low, though what the Civil Aviation Authority would make of Quidditch I can't begin to imagine.  
  
We came off the pitch in a fairly upbeat mood. Despite several injuries and bad visibility we had fought pretty well as a cohesive team, and areas where our tactics needed attention were easy to spot and rectify.  
  
"Rick and Ginny were too close together. Beaters can't really afford to bunch up," Angelina remarked. Doubtless Ron would have had something to say about that. "It wasn't really an issue with the fog being what it was, but next time try to split up and take a Bludger each.  
  
"Harry, try and stay high, and KEEP AN EYE ON THE OTHER SEEKER. If you'd got close enough you could have pulled the Snitch out of his bristles and we'd have won. Otherwise, we all did well. Let's hit the showers, everyone."  
  
Transfiguration was less than exciting. We had to turn a brick into an apple, which we couldn't even eat afterwards, because these things invariably wear off after a few hours. Now THAT would be an uncomfortable experience!  
  
"Why can't we learn how to change Knuts into Galleons or something?" Ron complained.  
  
"Legally, that's counterfitting," I explained. "I looked into it once." When I say 'looked into it', I refer to the one and only time I ever got arrested. Dad had managed to sort it all out, seeing the funny side, but it wasn't an experience I was keen on repeating even secondhand.  
  
"It'd still be worth a try, though," he mused, having another go with the brick. I groaned inwardly.  
  
Professor McGonagall gave Ron a look, causing his face to match his hair. he saved himself from more embarassment by pulling off a perfect Transfiguration, to class-wide applause. I noticed him pocketing the 'apple' on the way out, presumably with some nefarious purpose in mind.  
  
"Weasley, whatever you are planning with that apple, don't. If somebody tries to eat it they will end up in the infirmary. Even your brothers knew some limits," McGonagall warned him. "Or are you just in need of a paperweight?" Ron handed over the apple, thwarted utterly.  
  
As I headed for the common room, hoping to finish my book before embarking upon my Charms essay, I spotted a notice about the Yule Ball in a couple of weeks. //Oh, GOD.// Visions of school discos came back to haunt me. That, I concluded, would be something to avoid if at all possible.  
  
Harry and Ron were bickering over who to ask. "Not the Patil twins. I invited Padma to Hogsmeade, and it was Parvarti who turned up. And THEN Padma walked into the cafe we were in and pretended to have jealous hysterics until they both burst out laughing," Ron said vehemently. "They'd set me up!"  
  
"At least you didn't accidentally snog the wrong one," pointed out Ginny. "According to Fred, he and George's girlfriend nearly..."  
  
"I don't want to hear the rest!" There was a moment of cringing silence.  
  
"I thought Angelina was going out with Fred anyway. Probably both of them," Hermione said thoughtfully after a while. "Knowing those two, they probably drew up some kind of rota!"  
  
Eventually, Ron decided to ask Luna Lovegood, much to Ginny's displeasure.  
  
"I'm supposed to go to a ball with my best friend hanging off my brother's arm?" she complained.  
  
"Well why not? At least there's half a chance she'll say yes," her brother replied sulkily. I was mildly annoyed at this, as I found myself rather liking Luna despite -or possibly because of- the fact that she was quite clearly slightly bonkers.  
  
"How 'bout you, Harry?" Fran asked.  
  
"Cho. Definitely Cho."  
  
"What, after-?" Ron began.  
  
"Yes!"  
  
"Good luck, then. Hey, what about you, Rick?" This caught me off guard.  
  
"I don't know. I'm not even sure if I'm going to go at all; I can't dance, I fall asleep after three cans of Stella, and Fran invariably ends up dancing with whoever I've got my eye on." Fran casually wandered over and whispered, "Not this time around," sotto voice. I was a bit suspicious at this. Doubtless she'd ask Hermione, which could get awkward if we weren't very, very lucky. However, Hermione surprised us all with her contribution to the debate.  
  
"I don't think I want to limit my options yet. There's no rule that says it has to be somebody of the opposite sex you go with." Fran looked at me. I shrugged, resignedly, and went off to get another letter written.  
  
Me and Fran had decided to divide correspondence according to which parent we argued with less. I ended up with Dad, being extremely like him, whilst Fran handled communications with Mum. It seemed to work okay.  
  
Dear Dad,  
  
So far, so normal. Just played my first match with the Gryffindor team, but there was too much damn fog to Beat anything. We lost, but not too badly, and it certainly wasn't because of something I did wrong. I think.  
  
It's now the runup to the Yule Ball which I intend to avoid like, if not the plague, then at least the pox. So far it looks like Fran might be in luck; Hermione says she doesn't want to limit her options by sticking to guys. Turns out that Ron and I were on the brink of asking the same person out anyway; an endearingly loopy girl from Ravenclaw, whose father is editor of the Quibbler so I'd probably better shut up. Gryffindor-Ravenclaw crossbreeding seems to be in vogue; Harry's going to ask another Ravenclaw, Cho Chang- don't her parents run that really nice Chinese resteraunt in Diagon Alley?  
  
Say hi to Mum, and ask her not to punch Harry's aunt at King's Cross when we get back for the holidays, it'll only be embarassing.  
  
Regards,  
  
Rick. 


	5. The End Of An Interesting Term

Dear Rick,  
  
I take it you got out of the Yule Ball, then, seeing as only Fran put in a request for appallingly overpriced evening wear. Thank God for machismo! The mind boggles at Fran will be getting up to, though. You're well out of it.  
  
I, unfortunately, haven't been so lucky- the office Christmas do is in a fortnight. I hope we aren't going to have somebody photocopying their rear end and breaking the glass again; the paramedics couldn't lift the stretcher for laughing, and poor old George from office supplies needed five stitches.  
  
I enclose your allowance for this half-term. Try not to spend it ALL on booze and dope, please.  
  
Regards,  
  
Dad.  
  
"Booze and dope? I'm not at university yet, Dad!" I said to myself. There was a fair chunk of cash in there, though. I'm not especially well up on exchange rates (Gringotts base them on the value of the gold which Galleons are made of), but this was at least a few hundred quid. I wondered if I was supposed to split it with Fran; Mum probably hadn't sent any after the huge amount of money she'd spent on that dress robe.  
  
I returned to my new Terry Pratchett book, missing my Walkman, and was surprised to observe that he'd actually got quite a few things dead right. I deliberately refrained from looking up as the portrait opened and two drunkenly giggling individuals vanished in the general direction of the dormitories. Best not to ask who they were, I decided. One of them mght be somebody I fancied. The portrait took a few seconds to close, on account of somebody else -who presumably didn't know the password- diving through and getting their t-shirt caught.  
  
'Somebody' turned out to be Luna Lovegood, who was evidently about as enthusiastic about the ball as I. She was wearing a pair of faded and tattered jeans and a T-shirt with 'I Love LA' on the front; well, I think it was the front, because it looked like she had it on backwards.  
  
"Aha! A fellow Yule Ball refugee!" I remarked, offering her a Polo. She accepted, sitting beside me in a remarkably friendly manner given that we had only exchanged maybe a dozen words.  
  
"Ron asked me, but I said no. I can't dance."  
  
"Me neither," I replied. "And God knows what Fran's up to!" We shared a laugh.  
  
"I kind of like Fran, actually," she said after a while. "I think she and Hermione are a nice couple." Sounds which shall remain unrecorded began to emanate from the dormitories. "I think," she added with an impish grin, "that they have reached the same conclusion."  
  
I cringed. The whole concept of my sister's sexuality wasn't a problem; I'd had the last three years since she came out, to me before Mum or Dad (albeit when I caught her nicking the naughty magazine which was my most prized posession at age fourteen), to get used to it. However, its side-effects weren't something I was happy listening in on, though if it had been different people involved I would have quite enjoyed it. Luna began to blush, despite the fact that she was giggling uproariously. I resolved to take decisive action.  
  
"KEEP THE BLOODY NOISE DOWN!" I bellowed up the stairs from the common room.  
  
"Sod off, Rick!" Fran replied. "I'm busy!"  
  
//I can hear that,// I nearly said. Luna and I exchanged glances. "The Ball appears to be the lesser of two evils," I suggested.  
  
"Yes, you're right. Give me five minutes to change?"  
  
I dragged on my old school trousers, along with a pale green shirt and matching tie that I had last worn for my baby cousin's christening, and waited outside the common room. Punctually, Luna reappeared in a rather pricey looking red ballgown; having a fabulously rich dad must compensate for that same dad editing a much-derided scandal sheet magazine- think GQ meets Vogue.  
  
"Ready?"  
  
"Whenever you are!"  
  
As we headed for the Great Hall, Luna slipped an arm into mine. I drew upon reserves of willpower I hadn't known existed to avoid jumping when she did this. I glanced down, and decided that the perpeptually surprised set of her face was cute rather than outlandish.  
  
The Ball was in full swing when we arrived. Harry and Cho were dancing enthusiastically to some song I'd never heard before, by a band I'd never heard of, and they seemed to be enjoying themselves. Ron and Lavender were watching, grinning at each other triumphantly. They looked somewhat less cheerful as Ginny hauled a miserable-looking, slightly drunk Draco onto the dancefloor, having apparently taken pity on him. Pansy had loudly and publically dumped him earlier that week, listing all his personal and sexual deficits and pointedly shagging Crabbe AND Goyle, Draco's henchmen/penis extensions.  
  
"Don't look like that, Ron," Luna remarked cheerily. "It'll irritate that pug-nosed bitch Parkinson no end. And he DOES have quite a nice arse."  
  
"Merlin's beard, you really are mad, Luna!" Ron said, though without excessive malice. "She's got a point about his arse, though," Lavender added.  
  
"I surely couldn't comment," I replied. There was general laughter.  
  
"Hi, Rick. How come you're down here? I thought you weren't coming," Harry observed, leaving the dancefloor with Cho joined to his hip. "Hi, Luna," he said by way of an afterthought.  
  
"Well, I was sort of camped out in the common room," I explained. "But Fran and Hermione-"  
  
"Ah, so THAT's where they've got to!" More laughter, but affectionate laughter.  
  
"So," Ron said to Harry and Cho, "you two finally stopped misunderstanding each other, then?" Talk about stating the bleedin' obvious! Cho just giggled, and Harry glared at him.  
  
Before this intriguing development could progress any further, Ginny appeared, Draco in tow behind her. There was a collective groan.  
  
"Oh, come on, you lot," I said, feeling genuine sympathy for my cousin. "He's not so bad when you get to know him. 'Specially when he's had a few!"  
  
"Oh, hi Luna. You found Rick, then?" I shot Ginny a curious look.  
  
"She said you were all on your own," Luna explained. "I thought you'd want somebody to talk to, and I was all on my own, so I came over to see if you were okay."  
  
"Yeah, I just felt a bit sorry for you," Ginny explained. "So what brings you down here?" I hesitated, uncertain as to whether Slytherin's chief complete and total bastard should hear this. Not that it needed much deduction.  
  
"Oh, I SEE," Ginny smirked. "I thought I saw them leave together."  
  
"Me too," Draco added, trying to deduce the piss-taking potential of such an occurrence. Having been on the recieving end of Fran's left hook, he concluded that the risk of personal injury outweighed the opportunity to mercilessly ridicule either party.  
  
The music changed to something slow and romantic. I glanced over at Luna.  
  
"Well, even I can't tread on you with this one. Want to dance?"  
  
"Why not?"  
  
Ron and Ginny glanced at each other, and nodded in satisfaction.  
  
I forget how long we were on that dancefloor. It felt like an age, with neither of us really aware of the other dancers. Luna had been too modest; she was actually a brilliant dancer. Once we finally sat down for a bit things were drawing to a close.  
  
Ron and Lavender had disappeared, and Harry and Cho were busily snogging over by the punchbowl. That left Ginny and, to my dismay, Draco to talk to.  
  
"Glad you joined us after all?" Draco asked, suddenly without his usual arrogance and condescention. Luna's hand intertwined with mine, and squeezed.  
  
"Yes," we chorused.  
  
When the Ball finally drew to a close, I walked Luna back to her house's tower. I risked giving her a quick kiss goodnight. As I turned to go to bed, I glanced behind me. Luna was still standing there, a faint but beautiful smile on her face.  
  
Without realising it, I began to smile too.  
  
Of course, the next day was painful for some of us. Fran awoke late, and staggered down looking like she badly needed a coffee.  
  
"Busy night?" I asked cordially.  
  
"Hell yes!" she replied, beaming. "Who would have thought that somebody as bookish as Hermione would have all that sexual energy dammed up inside her?"  
  
"I don't want to hear the rest!" I said hastily. "And for the love of God do something about that lovebite." Fran looked in the mirror hanging by the fireplace.  
  
"Oh, shit! Where's my Erase?"  
  
Hermione appeared, and performed a Concealment Charm. "Much as I'd like to show off," she said, "I think after ten minutes the blushing would obscure it!"  
  
I sighed, and went to go and have some breakfast. Filch was waiting outside the portrait, scowling.  
  
"If you see Granger, tell her that if that damn cat of hers goes near Mrs Norris ONE MORE TIME...!" he began, incoherent with fury.  
  
"Oh no. Crookshanks hasn't got into a fight with her, has he?" I groaned.  
  
"Hah! No, boy, it's worse than that!" Filch made the appropriate gestures. I tried extremely hard not to laugh, and even harder not to be obvious about it, but there was a sudden screeching noise; cats mating.  
  
Filch gave a kind of hoarse scream, and ran off waving his mop and yelling curses, leaving me doubled over with helpless laughter.  
  
As a finale to the term, it was a damn good candidate, but there was more to come.  
  
The train pulled in on time, an indication of how the magical world had its benefits. If the Ministry would let me, I might go into infastructure maintenance, and probably earn a knighthood before I was forty.  
  
Harry's aunt was waiting, looking thoughroughly hacked off about it. This may have been something to do with my father's Mondeo parked near her Astra estate. Ron's dad was chatting to him, probably about wizard/normal person relations, a shared passion of theirs.  
  
Luna walked with me to the car, and then gave me a kiss. Not a chaste peck like at the end of the ball, I might add, but the real McCoy with tongues and everything. "Write to me," she whispered almost pleadingly.  
  
"You bet I will," I replied.  
  
Fran and Hermione were making their own fond farewells. "My, my," Dad remarked. "You two HAVE had a busy year!"  
  
"You could say that," I laughed. "So, Harry, you've got at least one pal in the neighbourhood now. I'll call round for you some time, yeah?"  
  
"Oh, he WILL, will he?" Petunia Dursley enquired acidly. "Come on, boy, get in the car!" Something in my normally placid father broke.  
  
"Look," he snarled. "If he's SUCH a burden on you, then we've got a spare room, you know. I'm surprised your sister doesn't come back and bloody well haunt you!"  
  
Dudley emerged from the car. Feeling unable to show solidarity with his mother in any other way, but thinking he ought to out of anti-Potterism, he took a swing at me.  
  
This was a bad move on his part. Instantly, a fist slammed into his ample midriff, knocking the wind out of him and pitching him to the ground.  
  
"Did I ever mention," I said smoothly, "that I got really into kickboxing over the last couple of years, Harry?" The 'oh, BUGGER!' expression on Dudley's face was a true joy to behold.  
  
I'd been waiting ten years to do that, for him to give me an excuse, for him to be without all his cronies. Boy, was it worth waiting for!  
  
Dad put a Reductio on Harry's trunk, enabling it to fit in the boot, and we headed for home. Much later, Harry said that this was the first time he'd ever been anything other than deeply depressed when returning from the end of term.  
  
#~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~#  
  
Coming up in Part 2: Harry will have a chance not only to defeat the Dark Lord, but bring back his parents. As Rick perceptively puts it: "The Dark Lord might have spells on the go to protect him against every form of magic on the planet, but I'll bet he wouldn't think of wearing Kevlar!"  
  
Will a mere twelve bore, double barrel sawn-off shotgun defeat Voldemort once and for all? Will Snape finally get to punch James Potter's lights out? And why in hell does Draco Malfoy end up wearing a Weasley sweater?  
  
Yes, I'm bonkers, aren't I?  
  
Regards to my faithful reviewer/beloved girlfriend Amber, by the way. Hope you enjoyed this. 


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